American Dreams (28 page)

In early January, two weeks before the baby was due, Shawano Stuart came to Gordon Glen to say good-bye. He was joining a train of emigrants composed solely of fellow treaty advocates which was scheduled to depart within days on the long trek to the lands given to them in the West. He was quick to assure Temple that The Blade would remain behind to handle some unfinished business, strongly hinting that the imminent birth of their child was part of it.

Before he left, Shawano gripped her hand in his gnarled fingers. "I am glad my grandchild will be born here in our beloved land that has nurtured the Cherokees for time out of mind. It is a good thing." Tears glazed his eyes.

"Yes." She wept softly, for herself and for him.

"Be well, my daughter." He squeezed her hand briefly, then released it and turned away, leaning heavily on his cane.

 

The Blade stood outside the store and watched as the trader led the three blooded horses around back. The money for them was in his pocket. With the sale of the horses, he had succeeded in disposing of the last of the livestock. Seven Oaks was now in the possession of its lottery-winning ticketholder, unless the new owner had already sold it to some land speculator. In any case, the plantation was no longer his problem. He no longer had any responsibilities for the crops, the workers, the maintenance. Once that had been precisely what he wanted—no home, no wife, no family. But what he found he now had was a gnawing emptiness.

He took the cigar from his pocket, the one the trader had thrown in as part of the sale price with such penurious generosity. He bit off the end, spitting it into the dirt street, and lit it. He rolled the cigar between his lips and squinted to peer through the curling smoke at the shabby remnants of New Echota. His people had once pointed to it with pride. The capital was in shambles, like the rest of the Nation, all the government buildings fallen into disrepair.

A few soldiers idled outside the army headquarters. Beyond, smoke from cookfires spiraled lazily toward the winter sky, marking the site of the small encampment of his countrymen who awaited the departure of the next train west, most of them destitute and dispirited. The still air carried the echo of a drunken hallooing.

Today the town looked almost deserted. Ten days ago the scene had been vastly different. For a moment it had been as if New Echota had recaptured its former glory. Its carefully laid-out streets had been jammed with coaches, carriages, and wagons, many of them drawn by caparisoned horses. Men in warm furs had sat astride some of the finest horseflesh in the Nation. Laughing women and children accompanied by entourages of black servants had filled the coaches and carriages. More Negroes had driven the wagons loaded with provisions, household furnishings, and furniture, while others had tended the large herd of livestock.

That morning The Blade had bidden his father good-bye and watched the large caravan of some six hundred Cherokee emigrants depart for the West. He could have been among them . .. he and Temple. The thought clawed at his heart, making it ache afresh. He clamped his teeth down on the cigar, aware that she still refused to regard removal as inevitable.

Van Buren would succeed to the presidency in March, but he was Jackson's man. Ross would have no more luck with him than he'd had with Jackson. The Phantom Treaty, Ross called it. House Representative John Quincy Adams had labeled it an "eternal disgrace upon the country."

Bitterly, The Blade wrenched his gaze from the scene and sent it slicing over his immediate surroundings. Where the hell was Deu? His business with the trader was finished. It was time they left.

There was a noise behind him. The Blade glanced back, still grimly clenching the cigar between his teeth. A turbaned Cherokee staggered from the store, a whiskey bottle clutched in his hands and a government-issued blanket around his shoulders. When he saw The Blade, he halted, reeled slightly, and stared at the old scar on The Blade's cheek. A look of utter loathing and contempt stole over his face. Coldly, The Blade held the man's eyes, aware that if he turned his back to him, he might end up with a knife in it.

The man slowly drew back his head, then spat at him. The Blade flinched as the spittle struck his cheek, but he made no attempt to wipe away the slimy liquid, feeling a mixture of fury and contempt for this poor misguided fool who turned to whiskey rather than face the truth. Or was it for himself for getting involved in the Nation's affairs? Which of them was really the fool?

When the man staggered away, The Blade dragged the back of his coat sleeve across his cheek, then yanked the cigar from his mouth and threw it into the street. Why did he stay here? Why hadn't he gone west with Shawano? But he knew the answer to that. Temple.

It had been months since he had seen her. At first, when the threats against his life had escalated to an alarming degree following the ratification of the treaty, he had stayed away out of fear for her. But the arrival of the federal troops had negated much of that. After that, he wasn't sure why he had stayed away. It had seemed best for her and the baby yet to be born, yet perhaps it had been pride that kept him away. Maybe he had wanted her to come to him and admit he was right. Or maybe he had hoped he could forget her. But time hadn't given him any immunity from the pain.

Did she remember that it was his connections, his influence, that had kept Gordon Glen out of the lottery? Did she know she had him to thank for the roof over her head? Did it matter?

"Master Blade!" Deu rounded the corner of the store, his dark eyes unusually bright.

"Where have you been?" The Blade snapped irritably, in no mood to hear any news Deu might have gleaned from the trader's black. He walked briskly to the hitching rack where their horses were tied. "I have been out here for ten minutes."

"Master Blade, wait." Deu grabbed his arm, then quickly released it when he felt the bunching of muscles. "Old Gato just told me the baby's come. You have a
son,
Master Blade."

Silence. Then he slowly turned. "A son! Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir."

"Temple—"

"She's fine, sir. Just fine."

The Blade gave him a slapping shove toward the horses. "Let's go!" He sprang into the saddle and wheeled the horse from the rack before Deu got the reins to his untied. The Blade didn't wait for him, taking off out of town at a hard gallop.

 

Victoria lay on her side and gazed adoringly at the blanket-wrapped infant nestled in the crook of her arm. With the tip of her forefinger, she traced the curve of the tiny fist. "He is beautiful, isn't he?" she said, glancing at Eliza.

"Indeed he is." Eliza stood close to the bed, watchful for any signs that Victoria was overtiring.

"He is big for only three days old." She gently smoothed the bushy down of black hair on the baby's head. "It will be so good to have a baby in the house again," she declared, then struggled to swallow back a cough.

"Let me take him now." Eliza stepped forward and tunneled her hands under the sleeping infant, picking him up. "I think Mama would like to have him back for a while."

"Which mama?" Will inquired. "The boy has three of them. Four, if you count Xandra."

"At least no one can say he won't be well cared for." Eliza smiled as Will walked over to inspect the grandson she held in her arms.

"Father, you spoil him as much as they do," Temple accused from the doorway.

"Temple." Eliza turned in surprise. "You should not be out of bed."

"I can't stay there forever." She walked into the room, exhibiting only a slight gingerliness in her movements. "Especially, it seems, if I want to spend any time with my son. Every time I close my eyes, someone runs off with him."

"Your mother wanted to see him," Eliza explained as she transferred the baby into Temple's arms.

"I know."

"Miss Temple." Phoebe barged into the room, then paused, lowering her voice the instant she saw Temple holding the baby. "Master Blade's here."

"Here." Temple breathed the word.

"Yes'm. He's outside. He wants to see the baby."

"Well, of course he can." She beamed. "Tell him to come in."

"He ..." Phoebe hesitated, regret flickering in her eyes. "He won't come in. He wants me to . .. bring the baby outside."

Temple stared at her, too frozen inside to speak. "Of course," she murmured at last and drew the blanket more tightly around her sleeping son. "It is cold out. Be sure to keep him covered." She gave the baby over to Phoebe.

As Phoebe left with the infant, Temple pulled her shawl up around her shoulders, then turned and went to the balcony doors.

"Temple, you aren't going outside?" Eliza protested.

She paused with one hand on the brass latch and said, without turning, "I want to see him." She opened the door and stepped out into the crisp January afternoon.

 

His horse snorted and impatiently stamped a foot as The Blade centered his entire attention on the mansion's baroque door, waiting for it to open. When Phoebe came out carrying a blanketed bundle in her arms, he unconsciously strained forward, every muscle tensing in anticipation.

"Here's your son, Master Blade." She held the small bundle up, offering it to him.

He stared down from his horse, gripped by a strange feeling of awe, then awkwardly took the bundle from her, conscious of the squirming wiggle of the baby hidden inside the folded cloth. It was so small he wasn't sure what to do with it, how to hold it. He felt clumsy as he finally positioned the length of it along his forearm and lifted the corner flap of the blanket.

A tightness choked his throat when he saw the little face inside and the blinking, bewildered eyes that stared back at him. Black hair, fine as silk, covered the top of his head and curled over his ears—perfect little ears. Then his son gurgled and flailed the air with tiny fists. A powerful emotion, too new to identify, swelled inside him, bringing tears to his eyes.

"Miss Temple named him Elijah William Stuart," Phoebe said.

"Elijah." The Blade caught one of the fists between his thumb and forefinger and smiled at the little fingers that tried to curl around his thumb but weren't quite long enough to encircle it. "Elijah."

"Master Blade," Deu murmured low to him, his tone telling him there was something or someone he should be aware of.

The Blade instantly sensed that he was being watched. Without hesitation, he looked straight up to the second-floor balcony. Temple looked back, her black hair cascading loose about her shoulders, a shawl hugged protectively around her shapeless white nightdress. She had never looked more beautiful to him. Motionless, an unsmiling statue, yet she seemed to reach out to him.

Then Eliza joined her at the railing, shattering the impression. He looked down at his son, the child she had given him, the living proof of the love they had known together. He caressed the fingers that held so tightly to his thumb.

"Did she teach you to hang on like that, Lije?" he murmured. "You have to learn to let go." His horse tossed its head and shifted restlessly beneath him. "Let go," he whispered hoarsely, and reluctantly lowered the baby to Phoebe's hands.

Immediately, he reined his horse away from the house and the black woman, and forced himself not to look back. He heard Deu ride up alongside him.

"That's a fine-looking boy," he said.

"I will never live to see him grow up."

Deu silently cried for him, a tear rolling slowly down his dark cheek. There wasn't anything else he could do to ease his master's painful loneliness.

From the balcony, Temple watched him ride away, her whole body aching at the sight. She felt Eliza's arm curve around her shoulder, but she found no comfort in it.

"He ... he looked thinner." Temple remembered the way he had stared at her, mesmerizing her with his eyes. She choked back a sob, realizing again that she still loved him.

"Let's go inside, Temple," Eliza urged gently. "He has left."

 

 

 

PART III

 

 

... the opinion which is so generally entertained of its being impossible to civilize the Indians in our sense of the word. Here is a remarkable instance which seems to furnish a conclusive answer to skepticism on this point. A whole Indian nation abandons the pagan practices of their ancestors, adopts the Christian religion, uses books printed in their own language, submits to the government of their elders, builds houses and temples of worship, relies upon agriculture for their support, and produces men of great ability to rule over them, and to whom they give a willing obedience. Are not these the great principles of civilization? They are driven from their religious and social state then, not because they cannot be civilized, but because a pseudo set of civilized beings, who are too strong for them, want their possessions!

— George W. Featherstonhaugh

 

 

 

23

 

 

Hiwassee
 

May 10,1838

 

In full dress regalia, Lieutenant Jed Parmelee stood at parade rest, facing the sixty-odd Cherokee chieftains and headmen who had been summoned to the agency by General Winfield Scott, the new commanding officer of the federal troops. Jed was no longer the innocent and idealistic young officer fresh from West Point. He had spent the last four years in the Florida swamps campaigning against the Seminoles, losing many of his illusions—including the illusion of the glory of battle.

He had fought and lived while others around him had died. He had stopped asking why. Lieutenant Jed Parmelee was a professional soldier now, a combat veteran who fought because it was what he had been trained to do. He was loyal to the uniform he wore even if he wasn't always proud of it.

The subtropical sun had bronzed his fair skin and bleached the small mustache that grew on his upper lip. His sideburns and darkly golden hair had been streaked by the sun as well. And his eyes were old now with the hardness of experience, as old as some of the Indians' he now faced, old and sharply alert. He watched them, observing their stony faces and equally stony silence as they waited for General Scott to read his proclamation to them.